


Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes

by bluetears07



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Disturbing Themes, Implied Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 17:57:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluetears07/pseuds/bluetears07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock encounters a young boy with no name, an appetite and a bit of a temper. But boys often grow up fast. (Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde Fusion)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

John had turned in early that evening, complaining of exhaustion due to their latest case coinciding with the illness of two work colleagues. Their poorly timed absence left him with a few extra hours tacked on during the busy flu season. Apparently, it had taken everything out of the man to simply shuffle up the stairs of 221B, deposit the two bags of shopping and mutter a few single syllable words to Sherlock before slipping off to his bedroom to collapse.

Three hours later, well after the sun had set, Sherlock breaks from his latest experiment, now successfully in the incubation stage, to retrieve his violin from the couch. Crossing the room, he stumbles upon a rather peculiar sight. A young boy, prepubescent, most likely nine or ten years of age, stands stark naked in the open doorway of his flat. The child is short and slight, hints of malnutrition cling to his ribs and cheekbones. Neglected? Perhaps. Pale skinned, seeming untouched by the summer sun, with blond hair and bright blue eyes. Impossibly, vibrant blue eyes with an unnatural yellow circling round the wide pupil. A pair of hollow eyes that stare unblinkingly at Sherlock.

“Where did you come from?” Sherlock asks, taking an instinctive step toward the doorway, crouching down to get a better look at the child’s face. A floorboard creaks beneath Sherlock’s foot. The boy looks up sharply and those blue eyes fill with a newly born, wild curiosity.

It’s a look Sherlock has seen before.

“Don’t know.” The child shrugs, completely unashamed of his nudity as he peeks inside the flat. His fingers drum anxiously along his thighs as he rocks back and forth on the balls of his bare feet. Those wide eyes quickly survey the interior of his flat, flicking over the large windows and the layout of his furniture before coming back to rest on Sherlock. They skim over his features and there is something oddly familiar about the way the child pouts while thinking.

“Here.” Sherlock straightens up, tossing the boy his own dressing gown. The garment nearly swallows up his small frame, almost comical if not for the strangely predatory glint in his strange eyes. It is unsettling on a face so young and untouched. “What do you want?” The boy does not answer, wriggling into the silk with a pleased grin. He examines the fabric, rubbing it between his fingers and fiddling with the dangling cuffs. Rolling the sleeves back to a more satisfactory length, the boy exposes a pair of thin wrists and pallid forearms. “Where are your parents?” Sherlock is already annoyed by the unscheduled interruption, though mildly intrigued by the boy’s odd presence.

“Don’t know. Don’t think I got any…” He finishes tying the belt, tugging the loops of his childish bow before brushing past Sherlock to further explore the man’s flat. Sherlock stares after him, eyes narrowed but allowing the child to investigate in order to further observe him. Curious fingers pick at a nearby throw pillow, yanking a loose thread until it splits the seam and stuffing pops out. The ruined pillow is dropped instantly, instead his focus shifts to the violin bow propped up against the edge of the couch. “You have any chocolate biscuits?” He asks over his shoulder, picking up the bow and plucking the taut horsehair.

“No,” Sherlock answers automatically, snatching the bow away from the destructive child before it too goes the way of the throw pillow. The boy sniffs the air, pauses, sniffs again and the corners of his mouth curve up into a splitting grin.

“Liar,” the boy drawls with that positively wicked smirk before scurrying into the kitchen.

“Careful!” Sherlock reprimands, following after him while brandishing his violin bow.

The child is already throwing open Sherlock’s cupboards, crawling up onto the counter and knocking over pots and Petri dishes alike in his frantic search. They go crashing loudly to the floor, joined by boxes of pasta and soup cans John just purchased that evening. He lets out a squeal of delight. Finally, he unearths an open package of chocolate biscuits John must have hidden in the very back of the top most cabinet—how he ever got them down from the secret hiding place is something Sherlock refuses to indulge in imagining at the moment.

“Come here.” Nabbing the collar of his own dressing gown, Sherlock drags the child back into the common room. “Sit down.” He shoves the child in to John’s favourite armchair, getting rid of the violin boy in favour of looming over the boy with both hands firmly placed on his hips. “Now, what is your address?” Sherlock has already determined that the boy must live within the city limits, at least according to his accent, but cannot determine anything other than South London.

“I already told you, didn’t I?” The child pulls out a biscuits and stuffs the whole thing in his mouth in one go. “I don’t know,” he repeats slowly, over enunciating each syllable through the mouthful. Sherlock plops down in his own chair opposite and takes the boy’s hands in his own. He examines each pristine fingernail, smooth knuckles, and delicate wrists. There are no scars or cuts or dirt or any hint of nine years of age on the boy’s immaculate hands. Impatient, he starts to squirm away from Sherlock with a low-pitched whine in the back of his throat.

What kind of child has hands like this?

“Impossible,” Sherlock breathes, sliding to the edge of his seat. He reaches out, grasping the boy’s face and tipping his head back and to the sides. There is not a single distinguishing characteristic, no scars, no marks of any kind, only a pair of wide, stunning blue eyes.

The boy looks brand new.

“Hands off, pedo!” He snaps, lashing out at Sherlock with a flash of anger. A small fist nearly connects with Sherlock’s jaw. It is easily evaded as Sherlock leans back, steepling his fingers beneath his chin as he starts reassessing the situation. The child’s fury quickly dissipates. In the ensuing silence, his eyes flit over to the muted television screen. Shoving two biscuits into his mouth at the same time and munching happily, he points to the television. “Can I watch some telly?” A few crumbs dribble down his front, onto Sherlock’s silk dressing gown.

“What day is it?”

“Tuesday.” The boy responds correctly with a puzzled look. He continues eating the biscuits, greedily licking the chocolate off his fingers.

“Year?”

“2010.” Correct, again. “What about the telly?” He asks impatiently, gesturing toward the screen.

“What is your name?” Sherlock presses, continuing to ignore the boy’s inane requests.

“I—” A long pause follows and the boy looks as if he is searching every dark recess of his mind for the answer. Suddenly, he flinches, eyes snapping back to Sherlock’s face. “I don’t—” he trails off, voice flat and dull. A fleeting sadness is quickly replaced with annoyance.

“Mother? Father? Siblings? What school do you go to? How old are you?” Sherlock asks in rapid succession, hoping to draw out an answer from the boy—or at least determine if he is faking the loss of memory. But why? To what end?

“Piss off, poofter!” The boy chucks a biscuit at Sherlock’s head before drawing his knees up to his chest, wrapping thin arms around them.

“Retrograde amnesia. How trite.” Sherlock concludes with a sour expression of disappointment. It is the only logical explanation; though the child’s ‘newness’ is overall deeply fascinating, his grating personality is something Sherlock would rather not partake of any longer. “I’m sure Mrs. Hudson will be delighted to fuss over you while waiting for the police.” Standing, Sherlock wraps his long fingers around the child’s upper arms, hauling him out of John’s chair.

Amongst a string of rather impressively inventive insults and shrieks of molestation, a few pitched so loud that he is sure John is about come storming down the stairs, Sherlock ushers the young boy downstairs to hand him over to a more sympathetic soul for the evening.

 

 

In the morning, John slumps into his chair with a cup of tea and a sad looking piece of burnt toast, clearly still exhausted despite sleeping for almost ten hours. Perhaps the boy’s bellowing had kept him awake. Sherlock informs him of the strange child’s appearance and inquires about whether the shouts disturbed his sleep.

John stares at him, he hadn’t heard a thing.


	2. Part Two

It was extremely rare, but on nights when Sherlock was between cases and John was otherwise in disposed (this time thankfully due to exhaustion and not another boring date), he would manage a short nap in the late evening. However, this night, just as he was settling onto the stiff mattress, a stream of haunting music came floating into his bedroom. It was very familiar, Shostakovich, being played flawlessly. At first Sherlock thought the music might have been a recording but the tone quality was too clear. John was dead asleep upstairs and of course he could not play the violin with such precision; apparently he’d had lessons as a kid but had been awful at it.

Cautious, Sherlock slips out of his bedroom to investigate the source of the eerie tune. A single lamp, one Sherlock remembers turning off not five minutes prior, illuminates the far corner of the living room. He round the corner of the kitchen to find the blue-eyed boy perched on the end of his couch. Short, little fingers dance expertly over the stings of Sherlock’s violin. His blond head dips and bobs in time with the music, childishly impassioned. Somehow, the boy looks older, maybe by a year or two—possibly three, judging by his jaw line.

Trick of the low lighting?

The boy abruptly stops playing. Head bent, still pressed to the chinrest, his eyes flick up and lock with Sherlock’s as the man steps into the living room.

“Hiya!” He looks up, his face bright and distressingly cheerful as he drops the violin to his lap.

“Couldn’t find home, I see.” Sherlock folds his arms, examining the tattered remnants of his silk robe now worn over a pair of equally dirty and ill fitted trousers. From the look of him, Sherlock reasons that the child never made it beyond Baker Street last night. The boy is practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect of Sherlock’s company, toes wiggling as his dangling legs kick back and forth. Sherlock had forgotten how fickle children can be, blowing hot and cold, one night calling you a paedophile the next breaking into your flat and playing your antique violin.

“I like it better here,” the child responds with a nonchalant shrug that seems incongruent with the happy way he continues to pluck at the violin strings with his blunt nails.

“Unless you have a case for me, you are immaterial,” Sherlock spits back, turning to leave as he reaches out to flick off the light.

“No!” The child smacks the violin bow against the couch cushion. It snaps clean in two. “Do not ignore me,” he yells, his shrill voice echoing in the flat as if unnaturally amplified. Sherlock pauses, turning back around calmly to stare at the boy who just wrecked the bow his father gifted him twenty years ago. The flash of ire dissipates completely once Sherlock redirects his attention back to the boy. Satisfied, the child hops off the arm of the sofa, still clutching the violin and broken bow. “Let’s play a game,” he demands, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He wanders around the room, searching for some form of entertainment. Sherlock watches silently as the child yanks a few encyclopaedias off one of the lower bookshelves before turning to face him. “I can help with the experiment and dissection.” A grin curls the edges of the boy’s mouth and in the lighting his expression almost looks sinister. Interesting. Arms folded tight across his chest, Sherlock turns toward the kitchen. “I’ve a lot of practice with dead things. It’ll be fun.” The boy calls out, hoping to appeal to the man’s more perverse nature.

“Leave the violin.” Sherlock instructs without looking back.

 

 

After an hour of exploratory dissection, Sherlock asks the boy to slice open the third rodent and tell him what different there is between the stomach contents of it and the previous two rats. Oddly enough, Sherlock finds the child’s company rather agreeable—at least he is not squeamish and rather responsive to Sherlock’s various scientific mutterings. He is almost as nice a companion as John, though far more impulsive and bratty. And his eyes are much bluer and his hair much brighter though Sherlock is sure there is a much deeper darkness that haunts the boy’s impossible eyes.

“It doesn’t bother you?” Sherlock asks curiously as the child deftly cracks open the rat’s ribcage.

“Nah,” the child brushes the idea off with a grin as he locates the stomach and extracts it. A look of glee dances around his features as he slices open the organ. “Seen much worse.”

Strange.

“Where?” Sherlock asks immediately, challenging the boy’s claim. He feels a twinge of annoyance that he cannot easily read the child’s history in his appearance. Any other individual and Sherlock would have know within five minutes of setting eyes on him. Children were always harder to read, it had been a long time since he felt that young. It must be the overwhelming ‘newness’ of him that is throwing Sherlock off—it is difficult to deduce what is not there.

“Don’t know.” The boy shrugs, seemingly unconcerned with his lack of a proper memory. “But I have,” the boy assures him admittedly and it is clear the child believes what he is saying. With a glance up at Sherlock, the haunting blue eyes narrow as he struggles to remember something illusive. “It’s a bit fuzzy, like I was only half awake at the time.” Latex covered fingers covered in entrails and bits of half digested and unidentifiable meat, the boy stares through Sherlock.

“Perhaps your memory is returning.” Sherlock theorises, sewing the first two rats back up with two different metal disks inside. “That is if you do indeed have amnesia,” he adds, eyeing the child sceptically.

“Don’t think it’s that, Sherlock.” The disquieting smile returns to his young face, aging him by a few years—and this must be what people see when Sherlock’s face lights up upon news of a serial killer roaming the streets of London. “I think I’m something new,” he adds proudly, blue eyes wide and full of so much life. And isn’t that true. After all, Sherlock is sure he has never seen anything like the child ever before. The boy looks back down at the rodent, smearing its stomach contents between his gloved fingers. “Unlike the others, this one was poisoned.” He bends to sniff the bile. “Ricin.”

“Correct.”

 

 

Much like the previous morning, John stumbles into the kitchen bleary eyed and clearly still exhausted despite the appearance of a full night’s rest. Ceramic teacups rattle around as he pulls one out to pour himself a cup. He makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat when he checks the time. Sherlock glances over his shoulder in time to watch John’s forehead connect with the fridge as he slumps against it. Sherlock notices several fresh blisters on the man’s fingertips—very strange. He files the information away in his mind to dwell on later, turning back to his chirping mobile.

“Won’t be back until late tonight,” John informs him, voice muffled and thick with sleep.

“I’m sure I’ll manage. I have years of practice,” Sherlock replies, voice flat and patronising.

After a few deep, calming breaths from the general vicinity of their fridge, John forces himself to snap to life. He starts whirling around the kitchen, slurping tea and buttering toast at the same time and he racks and hand through his dishevelled hair. Sherlock continues tapping out a text to Lestrade, inquiring about any recent missing persons under the age of twelve. John dangles a second piece of toast in front of Sherlock’s face, completely blocking out his mobile. Begrudgingly, Sherlock accepts the food in order to appease the other man.

“Just don’t burn the place down, yeah?” John says with a hollow laugh, reaching out to clap Sherlock on the shoulder. The hand hovers in the air before eventually falling away, avoiding contact with the other man.

“I’ll text if anything should come up,” he calls after John’s retreating back.

 

 

 _Double homicide. Soho. Don’t wait up. SH._

 

 

After examining the crime scene and tracking down a few leads, Lestrade forces Sherlock to take a cab back to 221B. It is almost one in the morning and Sherlock feels wired. He bounds out of the taxi, ready to spend the rest of the night researching various poisons and bacteria, comparing notes from previous cases, potentially rousing John from his sleep to bounce ideas off his medical mind. Halfway to the door a voice cuts through the relatively quiet night air.

“Sherlock!” Sherlock turns to see a young man, late teens, most likely legal and clearly well pissed, stumbling out of the alley across the street from his flat. An exhibitionist, judging by the girl stumbling after him rearranging her flimsy skirt and the fact he is still struggling to button up his trousers. He manages to cross the street without falling flat on his face and calls out to Sherlock again, slurring his name until it is hardly recognisable.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock cocks an eyebrow as he fishes his keys out of his coat pocket. Bright blue eyes stare up at him, slightly glazed from copious alcohol and a post orgasmic haze.

Impossible blue eyes, rimmed with yellow.

“Sherlock,” the young man moans his name, eyes screwing shut as a wild grin spreads across his lips. He starts pawing at Sherlock, tripping over his own feet as he struggles to wrap his arms around the taller man. A look of confusion crosses the teen’s face as he stares up at Sherlock. “Come on, mate, don’t you want to play?” Teeth sink into the soft cartilage of his earlobe and the young man’s hands are everywhere, unnaturally quick despite his level of intoxication. “I do,” he purrs into Sherlock’s ear.

“No.” Sherlock attempts to shove him off but is met with surprisingly strong resistance. The teen does not budge an inch nor show any sign that he even registered Sherlock’s refusal. He swiftly pries open Sherlock’s coat and starts tugging at the dark purple fabric hiding beneath. Cold fingertips brush against his abdomen and Sherlock’s back collides with the door.

“Where’s my twenty quid, bender?” The woman, a prostitute, heroin addict for five to seven years, mid-thirties, bellows across the street.

“Shhhhush,” the young man whirls around, pressing his finger to his lips and glaring at the woman. “Wasn’t even worth a fiver!” There is real, unchecked rage in his voice and the woman flinches at the sound. While the drunk is distracted, Sherlock easily extracts himself from the man’s loose grip and slips away.

Sherlock flings the door closed behind him but the image of those familiar blue eyes gives him a momentary pause before dashing up the stairs to discuss the incident with John.

Unfortunately, John is not home yet.

Neither is the child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It will get a bit darker from here. Music Featured: [Shostakovich](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zwuBgN0-dQU&feature=player_detailpage#t=258s)


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finally meets the man his young friend has become. But how does he know John Watson? 
> 
> Warning: Potentially disturbing, some mentions of violence and a non-con kiss.

“John,” Sherlock calls out the second he hears the John’s footfalls coming down the stairs. The footsteps pause; one particularly old floorboard creaks as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other—patient but wary. Rightfully so, Sherlock thinks to himself, a wry smile curling up the corners of his lips. “Could you send a text before you scurry off to work?”

“Honestly,” John sighs loud enough for Sherlock to hear—which is rather the point—as he jogs down the remaining stairs. He glances around the kitchen briefly, scanning the table where Sherlock sits conducting some bizarre experiment, before giving up and opening his mouth to inquire where the man’s mobile is hiding this time. “Left,” Sherlock answers tersely, nodding to his trouser pockets.

Reluctant but always loyal, John crosses the small room to assist his flatmate. He stares pointedly at the kitchen sink with a longsuffering expression as he blindly fishes Sherlock’s mobile out of the front pocket.

“Did you happen to notice if…?” John begins, struggling to find the precise tenor that might register as ‘casual’ before trailing off as he scrolls through a longwinded text from Sebastian Wilkes. The man has the nerve to ask once more for Sherlock’s help with some inane security matter—though the price is more than worth the meagre amount of time it would most likely take Sherlock to solve the case. “No,” John tosses the mobile onto the table; it skidders across the linoleum surface and bumps into Sherlock’s elbow. Mildly puzzled by John’s reaction, Sherlock glances up to examine the other man’s face. There is a faint flush creeping up John’s throat, pulse slightly accelerated, lips twisted down in a familiar frown, clearly he is rather agitated and full of unchecked disapproval. “He’s a prick,” John says, putting it plainly.

“Obviously,” Sherlock responds, voice flat and bored with what he has deemed a serious overreaction on John’s behalf. He turns back to his work, gently nudging the mobile in John’s direction with a sharp elbow.

“We don’t need the money,” John explains while he starts banging around the kitchen, shoving two slices of bread into the toaster and grabbing the nearly empty jar of strawberry jam. “Especially with all the extra shifts I’ve been putting in.” The glass bottom thunks against the countertop, followed by the clatter of a knife and plate.

“It’s an interesting case.”

“What about that double homicide yesterday?” John counters through a mouthful of toast as he paces in tight circles behind Sherlock. “What happened to that?” A few crumb spill down his front as he stops cold for a few moments.

“Jealous boyfriend, murder—suicide. Basic.” The word comes out short and clipped, hitting each consonant hard over the head. “I need something a bit more challenging than a cheating lover to get the blood going.” Sherlock pauses, carefully peeling off one surgical glove before finally picking up his own mobile. He starts to type out a response to Wilkes. John makes a grab for the device.

“It’s just an excuse for him to tease you,” John blurts out as Sherlock nimbly outmanoeuvres him, switching the mobile to his other hand and continues texting. “You know that, Sherlock.” The words register and Sherlock’s head whirls around, levelling John with a painfully blank stare. Awkwardly attempting to salvage the moment, he opens and closes his mouth several times before giving up with a heavy sigh. “I have to go.”

He slips out of the kitchen.

“We’re out of tea.”

He hears John pause on the staircase; it groans as he shuffles around for a moment before pressing on.

“I won’t be back until late.”

 

 

 

A harsh banging at the front door breaks Sherlock’s concentration just as he is about to begin his third and final titration. With an exasperated sigh, he abandons his experiment in favour of answering the door. The pounding sound continues, unrelenting and mounting in severity. Subjectively, he should be apprehensive of what lies on the other side instead of the tantalising beginnings of mild intrigue.

John leans against the doorframe with a wicked grin—or rather, a man who is the mirror image of John Watson as he must have been several years ago, perhaps in his early twenties, before Afghanistan.

“John?” It slips out of Sherlock’s mouth despite the impossibility that it is in fact a young John standing before him.

“Please,” the man rolls his eye; the other is swollen shut.

Everything about him is wrong.

This man, this man who wears a face so similar to John’s, only younger, brighter, is impossible to read. Sherlock searches his odd face, his clothes, his posture but can only piece together the most basic facts.

Who is he?

“Are you a relative?” Sherlock prompts, extending an arm across the doorway to block the man’s entrance. The man is taller than John, by at least a few inches, practically on level with Sherlock. He cannot figure it out, he’s grasping at thin straws trying to fit each scattered observation together into something coherent and workable. But it is merely a jumbled mess of data that does not make sense.

“A friend,” the man responds after a thoughtful pause, smiling again as he licks at the blood smeared around his mouth. “Oh, sorry, ‘colleague’,” he corrects himself, emphasising the word with exaggerated air quotes. A wide smirk engulfs his features, twisting them into something strange and almost inhuman. He takes a step inside the flat, easily pushing Sherlock’s arm out of the way. Each finger clenches tight around his thin wrist with the force to bruise or break, if only Sherlock flinched at the wrong moment. The man heads straight for the kitchen. “You got any wine—you look like the type to drink wine, yeah?”

Sherlock is one step behind him, eyes narrowed. He moves carefully, cautiously, trying to gauge the wild animal of a man.

“Who was he?”

Wine bottle uncorked and halfway to his pursed lips, the man grunts in mild confusion.

“The man you nearly killed.” Sherlock supplies as the man continues to drink straight from the bottle of red wine. “Obviously you were in a fight, but you won.” Despite the copious amount of blood splattered up his front and smeared over his face there are very few open wounds visible on his body—he was the superior fighter. “Someone taller, large hands, according to the bruising, probably male.” Sherlock gestures to the black eye forming on the man’s face, pantomiming the angle of the punch. He glances down to the man’s hands, blood and most likely skin beneath each of the blunt fingernails. Impassioned. Nasty and vindictive. “It was personal, very personal.”  His eyes flick back up to the man’s mouth smeared with blood, but find no split lip or excessive bruising around the area. “You don’t bite into someone’s flesh during a rational dispute.” The man’s eyes darken, lowering the bottle as he truly examines Sherlock for the first time. “He threatened someone you care about, deeply.”

“Brilliant.” He drops the empty wine bottle in the sink. The bottom shatters, splintering into four large pieces of jagged green glass. Pushing off from the counter, the man closes the space between himself and Sherlock. “I see why he fancies you.” He knocks his hip against Sherlock’s with a salacious wink.

“Pardon?” Sherlock remains calm as the other man turns back to the cabinets, presumably searching for more wine.

“John,” he tosses over his shoulder.

“So you do know John.”

“Oh, perfection,” the man moans, enraptured with his discovery. In the same cabinet where the little boy found his package of biscuits sits an unopened bottle of red wine and a box of Jaffa cakes. “So predictable, our John.” He pulls down the new box of sweets and viciously tears it open.

Sherlock has never once seen John eat a Jaffa cake.

“How do you know John?”

“We go way back.” The man laughs but it is a dark and deep sound buried within his chest—completely devoid of any mirth. “You want one?” He offers the tattered box but snatches it back before Sherlock has the chance to respond. “No? Good.” Stuffing another cake into his mouth, he takes a swig of wine, twin streams running down his chin to stain his white button down.

“You went to school together.” Sherlock states emphatically, finally coming to some concrete conclusion about the odd man guzzling down his flatmate’s wine and calling him a ‘colleague.’

“Oh,” he sighs happily, sucking melted chocolate off his thumb, nibbling a bit at the flesh with a knowing smile that makes Sherlock’s blood run cold. “He’s told me loads about you.” The man is clearly avoiding confirming or denying Sherlock’s statement and taking delight in toying with him. “Well, when I say told…” he laughs to himself, enjoying whatever inside joke Sherlock is not privy to understanding fully.

“When did you last speak with John Watson?” Sherlock asks, maintaining his air of calm while defensively folding his arms over his chest.

“This evening, just a few hours ago, actually.” The man corners Sherlock, gripping the counter on either side of his hips with an unmovable strength. “You know, he really disapproves of your old mate Sebastian.” He slowly licks his lips, the one undamaged eye roaming appreciatively over Sherlock’s body. “I think he was going to go give him a piece of his mind. Make him leave you alone. For good.”

“Wilkes?”

“That’s the one,” he drawls, his eye zeroing in on the slight part of Sherlock’s lips. The countertop creaks behind him, bending under the pressure of the man’s firm grasp. “Hope it didn’t get too physical.” He leans in closer, breathing deeply through his nose. Sherlock stiffens as a slick tongue flicks out to slide along the pale stretch of skin beneath his jaw.

“Get off of me.” He tries to wrench himself free but the man barely moves, impossible strength hidden in the coiled muscles of his limbs. Lips press against the cartilage of Sherlock’s ear.

“Your excited by this,” he whispers, a grin obvious in his voice as he faintly sniffs the air. Another dark laugh bubbles up in his throat, the sound tumbling around in Sherlock’s head. “Why? Cause I look like him?” He feels completely paralysed, a thousand cutting remarks spring to the top of his head but none make it past his clenched teeth. Arching back, the man presses his narrow hips flush against Sherlock’s. The man tilts his head, blue eyes narrowed as he considers the preposterous idea. “What a laugh. He’d love to hear that one…” Trailing off, voice dripping with lascivious sarcasm, he catches Sherlock’s lips in a biting kiss. Sherlock remains unresponsive and the man draws back when there is no greatly anticipated struggle. “Aww,” he reaches up to run the pad of his thumb over Sherlock’s lower lip, smearing their saliva over the abused flesh. “But there is no fun in it if he doesn’t know.” Plucking up the bottle of wine and sweets, he turns and leaves Sherlock behind to totter off in the direction of the flat’s common room.

After a few minutes, a thud and a moan, Sherlock ventures out to find the man passed out on the couch clutching the now empty bottle.

 

 

 

Sherlock sits at the worktable in the common room the whole night through, quietly observing, taking notes about the subtle differences between the man and John. He watches as the figure curls up into a tight ball, drawing his knees up to his chest. A textbook foetal position. When he unfurls over an hour later the body seems smaller, shorter, more compact and distinctly more John-shaped.

Fascinating.

There is a low, pained groan from the couch, muffled faintly by the cushions. It draws Sherlock’s attention away from updating his notes. He snaps the laptop closed, staring at John, the real John, collapsed on the sofa across the room.

“John,” Sherlock calls out, fingers hooking around the handcuffs resting beside the laptop, just in case. The body rolls away from the sound of Sherlock’s voice, burying his head further in to the cushions. Obviously hung over. Another groan of pain comes from John’s vicinity as he slowly reaches up to gently examine the swelling around his eye and cheek. “When did you get back last night?” Sherlock presses, watching John twists around to lie on his back, taking pressure off the inflamed area.

“Late,” he mumbles, eyes still closed with his hands covering them. He slowly draws himself up into a sitting position, back to the armrest.

“Do you remember?” Sherlock crosses the room to stand over John, staring down as the other man struggles to piece together his memories of the previous night. He reaches down to examine the black eye and is a little surprised when John does not protest, merely hissing through his teeth in pain.

“I—I”

“What about the night before?” He prompts, pressing on as he takes a step back to better scrutinize John’s reaction. Perhaps there is some tell he has overlooked, something obscured by the brutish man. “Have there been any gaps in your memory over the last couple nights. Anything strange?” A look flickers across John’s face, a split second of fleeting resemblance. It quickly disappears.

“I think I’ve just developed a bit of sleepwalking.” John confesses as if the matter was of no consequence, completely commonplace. “With all the added stress and long hours…” He fidgets uncomfortably, continuously prodding the swollen flesh around his eye with a strange fascination unbecoming of a medical doctor. Swallowing thickly, he licks his lips repeatedly, an odd taste lingering in his mouth.

“Sleepwalking?” Sherlock stares pointedly at John’s rather spectacular black eye and the dried blood.

“Yeah,” John mutters half-heartedly as he stand, wiping his mouth with the back of a sleeve. He brushes past Sherlock, gradually shuffling into the kitchen to pour himself a tall glass of water. If Sherlock’s theory is correct then John must be experiencing one hell of a hangover. “I’ve been sleeping quite a lot actually,” he says before draining the glass. “But I never feel rested and all of my joints ache.” Glancing down at himself, he pulls up his shirt to sniff the stained fabric. “Did you bathe me in wine?” He asks with a grimace. “I must have fallen asleep at work last night.”

“Call in sick.” Sherlock orders tersely, snatching the drinking glass away. “I want to observe you.”

“Sherlock, I can’t.” It comes out weak and tired as John slumps against the countertop—still sleepy and confused. “You know I’m th—“

“You are ill,” he counters, cutting John off, “and exhausted and were clearly in a fight last night. You cannot go into work in such a state.” For the first time, John really examines his own bedraggled appearance. A strange sound of disgust escapes his lips. He almost folds in on himself, knees buckling slightly. “I need to monitor this new ‘habit’ of yours.” Sherlock grabs him by the wrist, tugging him back into the common room. “If it is related to your PTSD then we must make sure you are not endangering yourself anymore than you already have.”

“We?” John asks, plopping back down onto the couch.

“Yes, we, John.” He holds the other man’s gaze for a half second longer than necessary. “My blogger can’t be wandering around all night in a daze, drinking and getting into ‘sleepwalking’ brawls.”

“Right,” he agrees, sleepily nodding his head and not really registering Sherlock’s words. “But first, I think I’d like to just take a bit of a nap…”

All Sherlock can think about is who he is going to meet this time?

**Author's Note:**

> Just in time for Halloween: A Sherlock crossover with Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? What? Not a new idea, I know, but I’m trying it on, with a few alterations. This is a bit of a prelude.


End file.
